Chapter One - Chinese New Year, Southeast France
The
outside door smashed open, blasting rain and the sharp scent of wet pines into
the old kitchen. Gilles Regnier, cell phone in hand, was already ducking into
the lee of the refrigerator. “Shh,” he hissed into his phone, and peered
through the fridge-top clutter. His wife stood in the doorway, her dark hair
and crimson scarf battering the age-blackened beams on either side. As she
dragged the heavy, wooden door closed, he stepped from concealment and raised
his phone. “It’s only Gabi. We’ll leave right away. See you at the border.” He
disconnected.
“Sorry,”
she said. “It got away from me.” She hung her coat over two pegs to drip and turned,
smiling. “Did I hear you say we’re leaving? Where to?” His face must have shown
his fear, for she hurried over. “Gilles? What’s wrong?”
He
hugged her, absorbing the chill from her walk, breathing the damp jasmine scent
of her hair. “Where’s Dom?”
“On
the terrace with his dump trucks. What is wrong?”
“They’ve
found me out. Michel says they may be on their way here.”
“Right
now?” Gabi pulled back, her vivid colour bleached by his bombshell.
He
nodded. “We’ll be safer in Geneva.”
She
bit her lip. “How long will we stay there?”
“Pack
for a few days. Michel will send stuff from here if we need it.” He brushed her
forehead with his lips. “I’m so sorry, cherie.” Inadequate words. Most
of their life together was bound up in these old stone walls. “Be quick.”
She
blotted her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’ll get Dom and our clothes.”
“That’s
my girl. Don’t forget the rabbit. We can’t come back for anything.” He kissed
her again and hurried into his office, a converted mudroom joining the
farmhouse to the barn. Windows above the desk showed the dripping, skeletal
poplars along the lane. Beyond the farmyard fence, rows of pale stubble staggered
toward the low hills. The mudroom’s rear window
overlooked the terrace and a stream, ice-rimmed today, treacherous even if you
knew which rocks would not turn under your foot. Nobody with sense would sneak
in that way.
He
shut down his laptop and started on the desk. Passports went into his coat and a
handful of other papers into the laptop case. Each drawer was tidily closed
behind him. If the house was searched, there must be no sign of a hasty flight.
He switched on the shredder, destroying what documents he could not carry.
Gabi
returned with a suit bag and a soft-sided case. Behind her, Dominic bumped his bulging
backpack down the worn steps. His threadbare rabbit was in its usual headlock,
pink ears drooping over its stitched-on eyes.
“Papa,
Maman says we go to sleep in Switzerland. C’est vrai?”
Gilles
stroked the boy’s dark curls, so like his mother’s. “That’s right, mon fils. You and the
rabbit get in the car. I’ll help Maman with the suitcases.”
“Passe-Partout
needs his own seatbelt today,” said Dominic as he surrendered his backpack.
“He’s still got a bump on his head from his operation.”
With
the luggage in the Mercedes’ trunk, Gilles sprinted up the narrow barn stairs.
In Gabi’s practice studio he made a quick circuit of the windows. Wet crows
huddled in the giant pine. By the stream, Dom’s yellow dump-truck stood belly-deep
in mud. Nothing moved except the clouds, churning to spill their burden on the roof
tiles and the half-frozen mud of the deserted lane. Those drops would be sleet on
the highway higher up. No more delay. He collected Gabi’s cello case and ran
down to strap it into the trunk. Gabi settled into the passenger seat as if it
was just another weekend drive, with a bag of snacks at her feet. Dominic
fussed over his rabbit’s seatbelt until Gilles lifted him into his car-seat.
“Time to go, mon fils.”
